Plus One (3 page)

Chapter Five

Olivia woke to the taste of dead rodent in her mouth and a firing squad practicing inside her head. Whimpering softly, she burrowed farther into her bed and thought back to the night before.

Though she couldn’t exactly remember the details, somehow she’d managed to make it through the rest of the reception without sucking Ian’s face. Which had certainly been no easy feat.

A couple of times, he had seemed like he’d wanted to talk about what almost happened, but she just hadn’t been ready to have an adult discussion yet. She’d been confused and unsure and, to be honest, still a little turned on. None of which equaled a good state of mind to have a grown-up talk—well, one that didn’t include simply moving her lips along his body, anyway.

Instead of facing him, she’d spent most of the night on the dance floor, despite her distaste for it. She’d also drunk more than she could remember drinking in a very long time. A distant memory of Ian supporting a good deal of her weight against his side as he led her to her condo fluttered into her mind, and she groaned.

The rumble of her voice reverberated through her skull like a jackhammer, and she cringed, clutching the sides of her head.

“Oh, God,” she moaned quietly, rolling over and stuffing her face into her pillow.

Barely lifting her head from its soft heaven, she opened just one eye and looked to see what time it was. It was Sunday, the one and only day she ever guaranteed herself to have off. She’d been lucky enough to find an assistant pastry chef that she trusted enough with her bakery—her baby—so she could actually start taking some time off and stop working eighty-hour weeks. Even though she didn’t have to be at work, she did need to meet Emma for brunch at noon. However, instead of focusing on the numbers on her alarm clock, her eyes were drawn immediately to the glass of water, bottle of aspirin and folded note sitting in front of it.

Before she could even think of reading it, she needed that aspirin and she needed it fast. She reached for the bottle and popped the top, shaking three into her hand and chasing them with water. Once her mouth didn’t taste like roadkill any longer, she grabbed the note, noticing her name scrawled across the front in Ian’s unique script. Wasn’t that just like him to think to leave this for her, knowing she’d have a helluva hangover this morning? Finding herself smiling at the thought of him getting this set out for her before he left, she rolled to her back and unfolded the used envelope he’d written on.

Liv,

Hope you made it through the night without your head in a toilet. After your table dance last night, I was sure you’d be hurting this morning.

Oh, Jesus. Had she really danced on a table at the reception? She knew she’d joked about it, and had definitely done her fair share of dancing on tables—years and years ago—but she hadn’t actually planned on doing it last night. She cringed and moved her attention back to the note, reading the rest.

Call me so I know you’re alive.

And so I can tell you if you really did dance on the table or not.

~Ian

Didn’t that just figure? He knew she probably wouldn’t call him—at least not for a day or two—so he threw that little tidbit in to make sure she had no choice but to pick up the phone. Peeking at the clock, she noticed she still had a couple hours before she needed to get ready to meet Emma. She pulled her down comforter over her head and snuggled in for some uninterrupted, peaceful sleep.

* * *

Late as usual, Olivia collapsed in the chair across from Emma and, before saying a word, reached for the drink her best friend had already ordered for her. With her head still in a hangover fog, she realized too late that it was her usual mimosa and cringed as it went down her throat.

Across the table, perfectly made-up with her long, golden locks falling in smooth waves to her shoulders and her face bright and fresh, Emma raised an eyebrow.

Okay, so Olivia hadn’t been one to turn her nose up at alcohol. Ever.

Well, unless she was nursing a hangover, that is. Some people swore by having another drink the morning after an alcohol-fest, but the hair of the dog had never worked for Liv, much as she’d tried it during her college years.

Feeling frumpy next to her gorgeous—and always put together—best friend, she smoothed back her hair, attempting to tame the frizzies. She’d managed to fall back asleep after taking her aspirin, which was good because when she’d woken up again, she hadn’t felt like gnomes were using pickaxes to slowly break away at her skull. She’d also managed to sleep until she had only twenty minutes to get ready and meet Emma. She’d had only enough time to pee, brush her teeth and pull her hair back into a clip before rushing out the door.

Olivia reached for her water and took a tentative sip before settling back in her seat, finally looking up at Emma again. Yep, her eyebrow was still raised, and now she was leaning forward, one elbow on the table, her chin resting in her hand and a glint in her eyes. Classic gossip mode.

“So...” Emma said, dragging out the word. Olivia didn’t know what she’d heard yet—wasn’t sure if Ian had called her or not—so she simply sat there and said nothing. Her best friend knew how to play the game well, but, luckily, so did she. Emma smiled, a slow, evil grin spreading across her mouth. “I heard you danced on a couple tables last night.”

“Oh, Christ,” Olivia said, her hand coming up to cover her face. “Did I really? Please tell me that’s not true. I haven’t had a chance to call Ian yet and ask.”

Emma laughed loudly, the sound filling the space like wind chimes. Whenever Olivia laughed loudly, it always sounded like a hyena. “Actually, what I really want to know is when the hell you decided to take Ian as your date. Did I somehow lose BFF status and wasn’t aware?”

Olivia cringed and took another drink of water, sneaking a glance at Emma’s face. The playful smirk she wore proved she wasn’t really mad, but there was something in her eyes that showed she was still a little hurt that Olivia hadn’t told her. Since the age of twelve, they’d shared
everything
with each other.

But how could she share this? What had started as a simple proposition had somehow turned into a burning attraction for Ian that she’d never had before. Olivia didn’t know how her best friend would react to hearing that she had these feelings for her brother, and since Emma could read her like a book, Olivia wasn’t sure she’d manage to hide it. If she acted on her impulses, not only could it damage her relationship with Ian, but what would happen to her friendship with Emma?

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said genuinely. “It was sort of a last-minute thing he offered, and you’ve been busy with Brad or Brett or Brady or whomever it is this week, so I figured I’d just tell you today.”

Emma stared at Olivia for a few moments, studying her. Trying to keep a neutral expression on her face, Olivia glanced down at the menu in front of her, as if she didn’t order the same thing every week.

Finally, Emma spoke. “Well, at least he’s not spending his weekends with brainless bimbos anymore.” That was definitely one thing they agreed on. “But the next time you go out with an eligible, handsome, employed man, you gotta keep me informed. I don’t want to have to find out from my little brother what slutty things you’ve been doing.”

Olivia choked on her water, some of it sputtering out of her mouth and running down her chin. Emma just sat and stared at her, that all-knowing raised eyebrow mocking her, as Olivia mopped up the mess on her face. After Olivia had gotten control of her coughing, Emma cleared her throat, and Olivia waited for the inevitable press from her about what had happened with Ian. Or, rather, what Olivia was sure was written in her eyes about what she
wished
had happened with him.

Instead, Emma gave her a smile. “It’s Brandt, by the way. And, God, Liv, the things that man can do with his tongue... If I could marry just that, I totally would.”

Olivia watched as Emma melted right before her eyes, and for once she was thankful that the conversation had turned to her best friend’s sex life instead of staying focused on her.

Chapter Six

After her brunch with Emma, Olivia spent her day doing anything she could but calling Ian. She did some shopping, picking up a new pair of boots for the coming fall. Then she stopped in her favorite bookstore and lost herself in a new book for an hour or so. Once she was done there, she went home and cleaned every surface she could. Finally, when nine o’clock rolled around, she knew she’d delayed as long as she could. She didn’t know why she was putting off talking to him. It wasn’t as if anything had actually happened between them, and he could have no way of knowing the naughty thoughts that had been flitting through her head. She just needed to play this cool, needed to be herself and everything would be fine. Grabbing her phone, she pressed number three on her speed dial and waited for Ian to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice sounded gritty, sort of sexy, and that caught her off guard. She’d never before associated either of those things with Ian. But somehow, since that switch had been flipped in her brain the day before, she couldn’t help
but
think of him that way.

“Um, hi,” she stammered—another first for her. God, she was acting like a love-struck teenager instead of the professional thirty-something woman she was. Shaking her head, she told herself to snap out of it. It was just Ian, just the boy she and Emma used to babysit on Saturdays. Just the boy who’d held her so close last night, pressed to his tight, hard body...

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to let the table dancing thing go.” He chuckled, dragging her out of her lust-filled daydreams.

“Well, put me out of my misery already, would you?” She curled her legs under her as she settled onto the couch. “Did I or did I not dance on a bunch of tables like a drunken slut who can’t hold her liquor?”

Ian barked out a laugh, and the sound was a welcome comfort. She smiled, a couple giggles slipping out.

“When you put it like that, no, you did not behave like a slutty, rookie drinker. You might have requested the deejay play the Macarena and then proceeded to lead the dance for the entire wedding party, but that was the extent of your drunken mishaps.”

Well, on the scale of all the horrible things she’d ever done while drunk, that didn’t nearly rank up as high as one might think. She exhaled a relieved breath. “Oh, thank God.
Promise
me
, Ian,” she implored. “Promise me that you will do anything in your power to stop any drunken table—or lap, for that matter—dances.”

“Oh, well, you didn’t mention anything about lap dances,” he said seriously. “I hate to tell you this, but Maurine’s uncle Frank got quite the show after your sixth martini.”

“Shut up.” She softened her harsh words with laughter. “I swear that man is a filthy pervert. How do you even try to be coy while attempting to cop a feel over twenty yards of tulle?”

As he chuckled along with her, she relaxed. This was what she loved about her relationship with Ian. It was easy and carefree, fun and comfortable. This was what had gotten her through more breakups than she could count, what had gotten her through her father’s death in college, and the one time she’d ever been fired in her adult career. His constant support and love had helped her through the hardest times in her life.

She couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—jeopardize that. Not for anything.

* * *

After twenty minutes of easy conversation with Olivia, Ian hung up the phone and tossed it to the couch cushion beside him. He let his head fall back as he stared at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he brought his hands up and scrubbed them over his face before linking his fingers together and resting them on top of his head. He’d spent the night before at his parents’ house not sleeping, worrying over what was going through Liv’s head, what he was going to say to her when she called—
if
she called. To say he was relieved by what had transpired during that call would be an understatement of epic proportions.

Last night, he’d been close. Too close. With her body pressed to his, her scent filling his nose, her laughter in his ear, he wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone before. If he’d had even two more seconds, he knew he would have kissed her. After watching Liv rush away from him, then proceed to get trashed at the reception, he got the message loud and clear. She did not want to be with him, couldn’t see him like that, and was doing everything in her power to avoid him. Probably to avoid hurting his feelings, knowing her.

On the phone, their natural banter and friendly conversation had still been present, much to his relief. They’d talked about everything they normally would have, teasing and bickering just like always. The one thing they hadn’t talked about was their almost-kiss, and noting how she’d studiously avoided any mention of their dancing or what had nearly happened, he figured she didn’t want to talk about it at all.

Which was fine. He’d had years of experience keeping his feelings to himself. What were a few more?

Chapter Seven

Wedding number two—she wore a little black dress, heels Ian knew were made to have sex in, and there weren’t enough martinis for him to get even a kiss on the cheek when he walked her to her door at the end of the night.

Wedding number three—she looked uncomfortable, gaudy, and still fucking beautiful in a bright pink bridesmaid’s dress—strapless, which he had silently thanked the bride for—with her hair pulled up. He couldn’t stop staring at her shoulders all night, wondering what they’d feel like against his lips, if her skin would taste as sweet as she smelled.

Wedding number four—she knocked him off his feet when she answered the door in a floor-length red dress with a slit to her upper thigh (high enough that he kept praying he’d get a glimpse at the panties she was wearing) and a plunging neckline (low enough that he didn’t have to pray—he knew damn well she wasn’t wearing a bra with it). She had enough martinis that night to get her dancing again, though only to fast songs, and she gave him an awkward kiss on the cheek and a brief hug at the end of the evening.

He’d been going a little more insane with every single wedding that had passed. At each one, whether she was dressed to kill in her own clothes or dressing up in whatever horrid concoction the bride had chosen, she was still unbelievably sexy.

He’d thought he’d moved on during the seven years he’d been away. While he still cared for her as one of his best friends, he’d assumed his love for her had faded with time. But being thrown back into her life like this, being around her so much after such a long reprieve, was having the effect any sane person would have anticipated. Apparently, he was batshit crazy because he hadn’t expected his reaction to be so volatile. Somehow, despite his best efforts, he was falling for Livvy all over again.

Now, instead of living his life in Rochester as he had been the past seven years, he was counting down the days until the next wedding, and the next time he’d see her. His life was now measured completely in Friday and Saturday nights.

She’d stolen his heart, again, had him wrapped around her fucking finger. He’d do anything for her, give anything to her.

And she didn’t even know.

* * *

Olivia chewed on her nail, her fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. She was almost to Ian’s to pick him up for the out-of-town wedding they were headed to, and she had yet to calm her nerves. Truth be told, she was anxious, ready to come unglued, and scared shitless about what might happen at this wedding.

The past three had been pure torture for her. She didn’t know if Ian was aware of the way his hungry gaze swept over her, but
she
sure as hell was. It set her body on fire, made goose bumps erupt on her skin. She had hoped her attraction was a onetime fluke, but had been quickly proven wrong.

Each weekend he’d come up to Minneapolis to be her date had only increased her desire for him. She’d spent hours trying to tamp down her damn hormones. That clearly wasn’t working, and she was only slightly embarrassed to say that she’d worn out the batteries on her handheld friend from all the sexual aggression she’d had to get out.

For all that those dates had tested her resolve, they had
nothing
on an overnight trip. An overnight trip where they’d need to share a hotel room because the bridal hotel had been booked for months. She didn’t know how she was going to handle being in such close proximity for such a long period of time. She wouldn’t exactly be able to inconspicuously rub one out while lying two feet from a sleeping Ian.

She followed the road signs and navigated her way to his house, pulling up in front of the small Craftsman. Before she got out of the car, she took a couple of deep breaths to collect herself. This was going to be just another wedding, she silently told herself. They’d laugh, they’d talk, they’d dance, she’d drink a few martinis, and then they’d sneak off to their hotel room.

And
not
have sex.

She opened her door and then climbed the steps to his front door. Knocking twice, she waited for him to answer, enjoying the beautiful late August day. It wasn’t too hot, surprisingly, and she hoped the weather in Chicago was going to be as nice.

After only a few moments, the door swung open and there stood Ian, looking deliciously relaxed. His hair was mussed, as always, and he had a day’s worth of growth along his jaw. While those were both things about him she’d grown to appreciate, it was the fitted T-shirt he wore, clinging to his body, that really captured her attention. She could see the outline of his well-earned muscles, and she wondered what they might feel like under her fingers. Under her tongue.

She had to get herself under control, or she was liable to press him against the front door and find out for herself just exactly how he’d feel.

“Hey.” He smiled, bright and genuine, completely unaware of the inappropriate direction of her thoughts.

“Hey, yourself. You ready to get this party started?”

“That depends,” he said as he locked up his house. Turning back to her, he continued, “Are you going to make me listen to horrible music the whole way?”

With a gasp and wide eyes, she shoved him, forcing him to jog down the steps. She followed him down and toward her car. “Just for that, I’m going to make you listen to my ‘chicks rule’ playlist. All Sarah McLachlan, all the time.”

With exaggeration, he groaned as he tossed his bag in the backseat and climbed into the car. “Please tell me you made that shit up, Liv.” He gave her an imploring look as she started the car and pulled away from the curb, heading toward the interstate. “You don’t actually have that playlist, do you?”

She reached for her iPod and quickly queued up the music. “Just remember you brought this on yourself.”

He groaned again and her laughter filled the car as the first notes came through the speakers.